Playing Doctor
by Mandelene
Summary: Dr. Bonnefoy has a very sick and uncooperative Dr. Kirkland on his hands, it would seem. Thankfully, he's not going to give up on him without a fight, and love will always find a way, won't it? (Happy Valentine's Day!)


**Author's Note:** Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Here's a surprise fluffy one-shot based off the head canons discussed on my Tumblr several days ago. If you're not following me on Tumblr yet, you can find me under the same username—mandelene. There, you can stay updated on what I'm up to and have some insight into when updates are coming.

Stay wonderful, and I hope you enjoy the fic! And who knows? There might be another chapter or two if you guys are interested.

* * *

"_Oh, how the mighty have fallen."_

"Shut up."

Sometimes, Arthur can be _so_ adorable that it should be considered a crime, Francis thinks as he's getting himself a snack from the vending machine in the doctor's lounge. He can see the man's reflection in the glass – blond tousled hair, hunched shoulders, reddish-purple circles beneath his eyes, a medical mask covering his nose and mouth so he doesn't go around infecting everyone with whatever he's got…

"I told you to call out this morning," Francis reminds him after inserting his debit card into the machine, grabbing the granola bar that gets dispensed, and tearing into it—who knows when he's going to get another opportunity to eat?

Arthur takes a seat at the round wooden table in the center of the lounge, props an elbow on the table, and rests his head in one hand. He's clearly not at his finest. "I never call out. Besides, as I've already told you, I'm off tomorrow and the day after."

Francis scoffs, he's not going to bother having this fight again. He sits across from his colleague and boyfriend as of one year, takes another big bite of his granola bar, and takes a good look at him.

Glazed over green eyes and flushed cheeks—those are both signs of a fever. He's also shivering, sweating, and sniffling. He looks worse than he did during breakfast—which he barely touched, mind you. As soon as Francis noticed he was under the weather, he went about making banana cinnamon oatmeal just for him. The ungrateful Englishman took one bite and then pushed away the rest.

"Those are terrible for you," Arthur croaks in between a small cough, clearly losing the battle with holding onto his voice. It doesn't help that the medical mask he's wearing makes him sound even more nasally and muffled.

"Hmm?"

"Those bars—they're loaded with sugar," he explains.

"Thank you for the concern, but my A1C levels are normal."

This time, Arthur scoffs. "Not for long…"

They settle into the silence of the lounge—no one else is around at the moment, fortunately. It's not often that they're allowed time to themselves. In fact, they usually can go through an entire day without seeing each other.

If Francis is going to be honest, he didn't expect things to work out this way. When Dr. Arthur Kirkland was transferred to this hospital two years ago, Francis did not think he'd fall head over heels for such an impossible man, start dating him, and move in with him. That said, he has always had a soft spot for emergency medicine doctors—they're precisely his type. Francis pined over him for a good four months before he was able to make the first move, and they've only been living together for two months.

Those two months have been the true test of love, frankly. Francis has had to accept Arthur's frequent nagging, complaining, and how he insists on everything being tidy and in its place at all times. Arthur, on the other hand, has had to accept Francis's massive wardrobe and cluttered hair products in the bathroom.

Most miraculously of all, no one else at work seems to suspect a thing.

"You must have a lot of time on your hands today," Arthur suddenly says.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why else would you be sitting in the lounge for most of your shift?"

"I do _not_ sit here for my entire shift."

Arthur snorts. "Remind me again what it is anesthetists actually do."

"That's rich coming from the person who had to call me to help supervise them as they intubated their patient the other day."

"Not of my own volition. That's the new protocol. I could have intubated him myself just fine."

"But you didn't."

"Only because I don't want to give the administrators a reason to give me more paperwork to fill out."

Francis rolls his eyes and decides to let this slide. He's feeling generous, and it might have something to do with the fact that Arthur's frequent pitiful sniffling has softened his desire to argue with him. Part of him wants to reach over, wrap the sick idiot in his warm arms, and kiss his forehead, but he knows Arthur wouldn't appreciate that, especially not while they're at work.

"You never told me how you became ill in the first place."

Arthur clears his throat roughly—it sounds painful—and says, "My patient the other day was put on droplet precautions for the flu."

"And why didn't you wear a mask?"

"Because she was put on droplet precautions _after _I had already been in her room three times."

"Fantastic, so you have the flu."

"Most likely."

"Stay away from me."

"Gladly. Stay out of my way," Arthur huffs before sniffling.

"And blow your nose for god's sake."

At that, Arthur's ears flush scarlet. He stands up from the table and simply responds with, "I need to get back to work—unlike some of us."

"Watch yourself. I have seniority around here, and I'll have you know my opinion of the staff means a great deal to some of those all-important administrators you mentioned," Francis goads him, but there's a little flutter of concern in his chest because Arthur hasn't had anything to eat during his break—he's just been sulking in here for an hour without drinking so much as a cup of water to stay hydrated.

"Oh, I'm _so _intimidated," Arthur retorts, exiting the lounge with a final cough.

What a silly, handsome little fool that man is.

Francis keeps an eye on him for the rest of the day, watching from a distance because he knows Arthur won't stand for any hint of hovering or coddling when there are witnesses around. Meanwhile, Arthur slugs himself around from patient to patient, and it's remarkable how much energy he's able to muster.

At five o'clock, one of his patients starts coding, and Arthur is there immediately, giving chest compressions and dishing out orders just as he would at his top form.

And Francis, yet again, is reminded why he loves him. Of all of the young men and women he's seen come and go at this hospital, he has never met anyone who compares to Arthur. The man could be shot in the abdomen, and he'd still take the opportunity to put one more NG tube in or place an order for a medication.

Francis oversees the intubation of this patient as well, and glances at the pale, sedated woman on the bed who promptly gets sent up to the ICU. She is lucky, he thinks. Lucky that she ended up in Arthur's hands and no one else's, or she could very well have died. Now, she still has a chance. Her family will not have to weep tonight.

"Good work," he murmurs at Arthur as he walks by.

Arthur tosses out his gloves, rubs hand sanitizer into his palms, and sighs at Francis from behind his mask, exchanging a brief look of acknowledgment. Then, he straightens out his white coat and stethoscope and continues on his way.

He makes it three whole steps before he has to brace a hand on the wall to keep his balance.

"Arthur?"

Francis darts an arm out and tries to catch him, but he's too late—Arthur falls to his knees with a small groan, overcome by vertigo. He immediately tries to get back up, but Francis holds him down by his shoulders and tries to coax him to lie down.

"I'm not lying down on this filthy floor," Arthur hisses through gritted teeth, eyes shining with fury.

Unbelievable…

"Shut up and sit still at least," Francis snaps back, leaning him against the wall. He shoves Arthur's head down so that it's resting against his knees, and announces to the world at large, "We're going to need a stretcher over here, please!"

"Oh, no you will _fucking_ not.

"I said shut up."

Once again, Arthur tries to stand, but Francis forcefully keeps him pinned down.

"Not so fast. I'm in charge now," Francis declares with a frown.

"Says who? Fancy yourself a real doctor, eh?"

"I think a little lorazepam would calm you down."

"Don't you dare."

Francis grins mischievously at him as a nurse brings a stretcher. "Come on, let me play doctor at least for a little while. Besides, you're clearly dehydrated and exhausted. You'll get your fluids and some medication for symptomatic relief…_And then I'll bring you home and take good care of you, mon amour_," he says, whispering the last part.

"Over my dead body," Arthur growls, shaking Francis's hands off of him. He manages to stand on his own, but then Francis and the nurse bully him onto the stretcher.

While Arthur is preoccupied with suffering through another wave of dizziness, Francis orders that he be admitted and put into the isolation droplet precautions room, wrestles an IV into him, and gives him a nice cocktail of fluids, a fever reducer, pain meds, and a mild sedative so he can rest easier.

Once that's all done and Arthur is essentially passed out in bed from both fatigue and the meds, Francis stares down at his sleeping face with a gentle smile.

Much better…

When he's certain no one is around to see, he leans down and kisses Arthur's burning hot forehead, and even now, he is filled with the same amount of affection he felt when he first met him. "I wish you'd be kinder to yourself and just trust me, idiot..."

* * *

What the _hell _happened? Did he agree to go to another staff party? He swore he wouldn't after what happened the last time with the respiratory therapists and CNAs…He can't feel his sinuses and there's a headache pounding behind his eyes. He's also _freezing_.

Arthur slowly opens his eyes and is instantly assaulted by the bright lights above his bed.

Bed? A hospital bed? How—?

_Francis_.

He wants to jump to his feet and _kill _the frog, but whatever medication he's been put on is not totally out of his system yet. He wouldn't mind being struck by lightning and put out of his misery right this second. His throat is raw, every muscle in his body feels as though it's being twisted into a knot, and his eyes are puffy and watering.

Speak of the devil—Francis comes in a moment later with a cheery grin on his face, "You're up! How are you feeling?"

"I hate you."

"I know," Francis says with a laugh before pecking his cheek, "but I love you, and nothing will stop what the heart wants…Your blood pressure is back up, which is good—turns out you were very dehydrated. You've still got a terrible fever though."

"…What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock. You had a nice nap. My shift technically just ended. Beilschmidt took your patients, so be sure to thank him when you see him. I'll get you discharged, okay?"

Before Arthur can even answer, Francis disappears, and he's left to seethe in bed. He tries to break through the medically-induced mental haze in his brain, so he can sit up and get out of here, but it's _so _cold and another three-hour nap sounds tempting.

_No, stay awake. Get up._ _You're not a child. Don't allow yourself to be ordered around like this._

He pushes himself up a little but is interrupted by a coughing fit. It makes his chest burn and ache. Why did _he _have to be the one to get a patient with the flu? Why didn't Francis have to come into contact with them? That would've been fair.

Francis comes prancing back into the room five minutes later, holding a folder of papers. "You know what to do. Sign the last page," he says, handing Arthur a pen. "You'll be released into the care of the magnificent Dr. Francis Bonnefoy. I hear he's quite good and a real heartthrob."

"Stop, I'm already nauseous enough," Arthur says with another sharp cough. He hurriedly signs the discharge forms and hands them back to Francis. Then, he takes his IV out, dismissing Francis's attempts to help him. All he needs to do is get his stuff from his locker, go home, and lock himself in the guestroom so Francis can't get to him.

Apparently, Francis has other plans…Such a pest.

"I'll get your things. You stay right here."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Like I said, you've been released under the condition that you'll listen to _moi_, so I _can _tell you what to do," Francis replies with another annoying smile. "Be right back, _mon cher_!"

"Stop doting like a mother!"

"_Bien sur, mon petit bébé!_"

* * *

Arthur would rather die of flu-related complications than be in the position he's in now—cocooned in a warm quilt and flannel pajamas, lying on a tower of pillows, cold compress on his head, thermometer wedged between his lips, and Francis's stethoscope on his chest.

"You wouldn't be this bad off if you'd stayed home like I told you to," Francis mutters, removing the stethoscope and taking the thermometer back from him. "102.4…You're staying in this bed until your temperature comes down, but don't worry—I'll be tending to your every need, _amour_, as is my duty."

"Go away," Arthur groans, closing his heavy eyes and wishing he could sleep, but he can't go two minutes without coughing.

"Sorry, but that's not going to happen," Francis says firmly before re-buttoning the buttons on Arthur's pajama top—he undid them before having a listen to his lungs. He brushes Arthur's damp bangs off of his clammy forehead and offers him a reassuring smile. "You'll be all better soon. Would you like something to eat?"

Arthur shakes his head and pulls the quilt closer to his body with another shiver. "Not hungry."

"You need nutrients to fight off the infection, _cher_. You know that. Will you try some chicken soup for me?"

"No, not for you."

"For your own benefit, then."

"No."

Francis sighs, leans in close, and presses a worried kiss into Arthur's nest of matted hair. "Please? You're making Dr. Bonnefoy's job very difficult."

"I did not ask Dr. Bonnefoy to get involved. Besides, he's simply going to contract this as well if he continues to smother me."

"But he _loooooves_ you and wants you to feel better."

"I'd feel better if you'd go away."

"Don't be that way, _mon amour_."

"If I agree to the soup, will you leave me alone for some time?"

"_Ouai_," Francis says with a nod, giving Arthur one more kiss on the head for good measure, much to Arthur's chagrin. "Thank you for being so cooperative."

Arthur scoffs, wetly attempts to clear his nose without much success, coughs, and then groans.

"I'll allow you your rest until the soup is ready."

He watches Francis exit the bedroom and lets his head loll to the side wearily. He forgot what a damned pain the flu can be, and while somewhere deep in his heart he is touched by Francis's willingness to help, showing weakness is painful in and of itself. It's worse than the stuffy nose and fever-induced headache.

He sprawls out on the king-sized bed and tries to get as comfortable as he can. He knows he needs sleep more than anything else right now, but the fever and relentless snot is making it hard to rest. He takes hold of the compress Francis put on his forehead and rubs the cold cloth over his face and neck, which helps a little.

He's not sure how or when it happens, but sleep does finally claim him, and as is usually the case with such illnesses, things get worse before they get better.

Thankfully, his frog isn't as incompetent as he seems.

* * *

"_Quand il me prend dans ses bras__  
__Il me parle tout bas__  
__Je vois la vie en rose…"_

He rouses out of the stupor, half-opens his eyes, and sees smiling blue eyes blinking back at him. There is something so comforting about that familiar blond stubble and those wavy locks that Francis works so hard to maintain. The low tones of his voice as he sings makes the world seem as though it's moving in slow motion.

"There's my sweet, insufferable _cher_," Francis whispers at him teasingly. "How are you feeling?"

"Were you singing _La Vie en Rose_? How cliché…"

"Must you ruin everything?"

Arthur hisses as Francis puts a cold pack on his chest and two more under each of his armpits.

"I'm sorry I can't do much else, _mon amour_. It has to run its course. Your fever is spiking, but it'll hopefully come down soon. Just rest easy—I'll be watching over you."

"In that case, I definitely…won't be able to rest easy," Arthur rasps, getting a chuckle out of his partner.

If he's still well enough to be looking to pick a fight, then he'll be better in no time.

"Dr. Bonnefoy knows best—and his patient outcomes are very positive, I'll have you know."

"I'm surprised an anesthetist even knows what the flu is."

"Oh, shut up."

Arthur lets out a dry laugh, which then turns into another painful coughing fit.

Francis, without missing a beat, is there to pat his back firmly and order, "No laughing until you've recovered."

The frog then picks up a bowl of soup that's been sitting on the nightstand, ladles some of the broth onto a tablespoon, and says, "I won't take no for an answer. You need to have some of this."

He blows on the soup to cool it and holds it up to Arthur's mouth. "Oh, you could at least _pretend_ to be more enthusiastic. Open up. It's good for you."

Arthur promptly turns his head away and ignores him.

"Don't be a child. You said you'd have some."

"You're not my mother."

"Well, I'm your temporary doctor who is trying his best to nurse you back to health."

"You're an anesthetist…"

"And anesthetists aren't medical doctors?"

"Doesn't count."

"Not according to my license. Now, eat, or it'll be cold, and I'll have to re-heat it."

"I'm nauseous."

"That's not an excuse to waste away in bed and not attempt to eat at all. You should know better, Dr. Kirkland. How else is your immune system going to have the energy to fight the virus?"

Begrudgingly and with a sour look on his face, Arthur finally accepts the spoon and painfully swallows.

"Thank you, _mon amour_. It'll help your throat."

"I can feed myself."

"You'll spill it. Besides, you'll dislodge the cold packs under your arms."

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

"Shut up."

"No, you shut up and eat your soup like a good patient before I have to force feed you—or worse, hang an IV bag right here and start you on fluids again. It's your choice."

"I want a divorce."

"We're not married yet, _cher_."

"I want to break up."

"All right, you can break up with me once you've recovered. Now, have some more soup. Here we go…Mmmm, see how lovely?" Francis says with a grin, successfully, getting the spoon into Arthur's mouth again. "Nutritious and delicious—thanks to my efforts. You've always been a bit of a fussy eater for as long as I've known you."

"I have not—mpphh!" Arthur half-protests, interrupted by another spoonful of soup getting shoveled into his mouth.

To be frank, the soup is quite nice, and although Arthur isn't sure how his stomach is going to react to it, it does make his throat feel slightly less like sandpaper. It warms his chest as it goes down and the steam eases some of the congestion in his lungs.

It's a real shame, then, that no more than fifteen minutes after getting through most of the bowl, it comes right back up.

Francis holds his head as he retches into a bin and sighs. "Was it really that awful, _mon cher_?" he teases before pecking his brow with a kiss. "I'm going to start you back on IV fluids, okay? I know I was joking about it earlier, but it's necessary now. I had the foresight to bring some supplies with us from the hospital…"

Arthur isn't in much of a position to argue, so he reluctantly allows Francis to place yet another IV into the back of his right hand. Within just several minutes, Francis has a bag of fluids spiked, primed, and hanging from one of the book-ends of the bookshelf above their bed. Honestly, his creativity and resourcefulness is admirable.

Of course Francis keeps IV fluids and tubing at home—Arthur wouldn't expect anything less of him. In fact, he has his own stash of medical supplies in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Why go to an emergency room when they _are _the emergency room?

"There…That'll help," Francis says with confidence, scrutinizing his work and taking Arthur's hand in his own so he can inspect it. "You know to say something if your hand begins hurting, _oui_? We don't want the IV getting infiltrated."

"I know…"

"I was going to offer you some saltines, but if you can't keep soup down, I doubt those will stay down either…I'm so sorry you're feeling miserable, _mon amour_."

Arthur shrugs his shoulders and offers Francis a half-smile. "It's all right. I've been through worse…Thank you for wasting your time on me, though you shouldn't have."

"Of course. I love you. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I allowed you to suffer alone?" Francis asks before crawling into the bed and wrapping Arthur in his arms, staying mindful of the IV.

"Don't get so close or you'll catch this."

"I'll take my chances. I took the flu shot."

"So did I, and look where that got me."

"You were just unfortunate," Francis says with a sympathetic laugh. He has Arthur place his head on his chest and then pets his boiling scalp. "See? You work so hard and this is how your patients repay you—they give you God knows what mutant strains of diseases."

"I can't say I'm surprised."

Arthur can hear Francis's breathing and the steady beating of his heart. He doesn't normally enjoy being held like this, but he'll allow it for now and blame it on the fever later. The soft, reassuring caresses, the worried kisses, and mumbled sweet nothings distract him from his headache, the stuffiness, and the unsettling heat radiating off of him. He lets out a little groan when Francis attempts to massage some of the aches out of his upper arms.

"Shhh…It's okay. Try to sleep."

He doesn't need to be told again. He submits—and Francis should feel flattered about that. He doesn't lower his guard for very many people.

He nearly tells Francis he loves him, but another cough interrupts him, and he forgets.

* * *

"A tepid bath is just the thing you need."

"Don't get any ideas…"

Francis smiles brilliantly at him, disconnects him from his IV, and helps lift his ragdoll body out of bed with great care. Together, they shuffle into the bathroom, both a little weary, as it's now after midnight. It's become clear to Arthur that he's not going to be able to sleep through the night, not when his fever is still raging and his lungs feel like they might both collapse. Therefore, Francis knows that he'll have to stay up with him, though Arthur insists he go and sleep in the guestroom.

"_No, what kind of doctor would I be if I left my patient unattended?"_

_"Stubborn git."_

_"Look who's talking." _

Francis sits Arthur down on the lid of the toilet and runs the water for the bath. As the tub is being filled, he unbuttons Arthur's flannel pajama top once more and helps him undress. Normally, he'd feel tempted to ogle his body, but this is far from what Francis would consider to be normal for them. He's never had to care for Arthur like this, and right now, the only thoughts on his mind are to make him as comfortable as possible and to get him back to his healthy and short-tempered self. It's daunting to see him so drained and relatively meek.

When the water is ready, Francis carefully stands him up again. Unexpectedly, Arthur staggers, and he would have very well cracked his skull on the edge of the tub had Francis not been standing there to steady him.

"Easy now," Francis warns him, keeping a firm grip on him until he's in the bathtub and lying back.

"It's _fucking _cold."

"It's not cold—it's room temperature. You're just burning up."

"I could've bathed tomorrow…"

"Well, I have to sleep next to you, and no offense, but you stink."

"I do _not_! I showered this morning!"

"Technically, yesterday morning. It's nearly 1 AM now," Francis explains, picking up a bottle of shampoo. "Let me handle this."

Arthur swats a weak hand at him from the tub and tries to steal the shampoo without success. "I can wash myself. I'm not an invalid—I am perfectly capable."

Francis scoffs and responds by dunking the back of Arthur's head into the bath water to wet his hair. "You'll shut up and let me take care of you because you're bedridden and are clearly _incapable_ of caring for yourself at the moment. I gave you _children's_ Tylenol, and you couldn't even keep that down."

He can't tell if Arthur's face flushes in shame because his cheeks are already bright red, creating a stark contrast with the rest of his pale complexion. Kudos to him for still having the strength to argue.

"You'll feel a lot better if you relax," Francis says, a bit admonishingly. He pours some shampoo on Arthur's head and then works it into a lather, massaging his scalp, and it's odd how intimate this is—in a good way. He's happy to be doing this for Arthur—he loves him even when he's a shivering, nauseous, debilitated mess. "It's going to be okay, _amour_. I know you must feel awful."

Arthur sighs and defeatedly leans into his touch. "Mrghh…"

"Dr. Bonnefoy will make you all better again," Francis assures, only half-teasing. He supports the back of Arthur's head and neck with one hand while the other starts rinsing off the shampoo. "You're his _favorite_ patient, after all."

Arthur rolls his eyes and coughs. "Stop, or I'll be sick again."

"Aim for the floor, not me."

With a little laugh, Arthur turns his head and pretends to gag in Francis's direction. "Like that?"

Francis dunks his head into the water again, and Arthur's laugh becomes stronger and more contagious. "Well enough to be making jokes, hmm?"

"Always."

"I thought I said no laughing until you've recovered."

"And since when have I listened to a single word that's come out of your mouth?"

"Touché," Francis huffs, giving his head one final rinse. Then, he hands Arthur a bar of soap. "Can I trust you to handle the rest?"

"I'm sorely disappointed, you know. I was expecting a bed bath," Arthur says, quickly snatching the soap.

"You expect too much of me. I'm afraid I don't love you _that_ much," Francis jokes.

"Typical anesthetist—can't manage any of the dirty work."

"People like you are precisely why I prefer to work with patients who are asleep."

"I'm touched. Thank you for that."

"Anytime, _cher_. Finish washing up. I'll get you some clean clothes…Though I'd prefer you without them."

Arthur gags again, and it sounds more realistic this time.

"_Je t'aime_!"

"Ugh…"

* * *

It's a…taxing night, to put it lightly.

By three o'clock in the morning, Arthur certainly isn't up for any more banter. Instead, he's half-unconscious and rouses about every fifteen minutes to either cough up a lung or be sick. His breathing is heavy, his nose is as red as a cherry and running with snot, and Francis is _very _worried about him.

"My poor _cher_," Francis sighs, rubbing Arthur's back. "Hang in there. It'll be better soon. Here—please try to drink some of this for me."

Arthur blearily looks at the sports drink Francis holds out to him and though his stomach constricts at the mere thought of it, he takes a few slow sips because he knows he's in desperate need of some electrolytes.

"Thank you, _mon amour_. You're being so good…"

Arthur elbows him in the chest, and Francis laughs.

"Well, as good as you can be, I suppose," Francis murmurs, carding his hand through Arthur's hair. "Want me to sing something else for you?"

"No."

"_Je voudrais que tu y viennes, que tu me prennes…_"

"Not French," Arthur groans.

Francis pauses, thinks for a moment, and sings the first love song that comes to mind in English. "_I just called to say I love you…I just called to say how much I caaaaaare_," he croons, exaggerating his singing a little to get a smirk out of Arthur. "_I mean it from the bottom of my heeeeart_."

Arthur groans again. "That's not much better…"

"How about…_Shying away, I'll be coming for your love, okay? Taaaaaake on meeeee! Take meeeeeeeee oooon!" _

Arthur takes a wad of tissues and blows his nose loudly. "Will you be gone in a day or two?"

"If you fail to finally appreciate my wondrous singing then yes. Do you have any song requests?"

"No. I'd appreciate some silence."

"_Every breath you taaaake, every move you maaake_…"

"Oh, Lord…"

"_You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeeeeen!" _

At that one, Arthur finally bursts into a laugh. "You're such an idiot."

Francis stands up on the bed, exaggeratedly swishes his hips from side to side, flips his hair back, and attempts to serenade him, "Anybody could be that guy, night is young and the music's high, with a bit of rock music, everything is fine, you're in the mood for a daaance…And when you get the chaaaance…"

"Please don't," Arthur begs, but there's a hint of a smile hanging on the corner of his lips.

Francis jumps down from the bed and gives a little twirl. He's wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of red boxers, and Arthur can't help but let his feverish eyes…rove. "YOU ARE THE DANCING QUEEEEN. YOUNG AND SWEET, ONLY SEVENTEEEEEN. DANCING QUEEEN, FEEL THE BEAT FROM THE TAMBOURINEEEEE. OOOOH YEAAAH."

"Francis, it's three o'clock in the morn—"

Francis hops back onto the bed, gets on his knees, grabs Arthur's shoulders, and tries to rock him back and forth to the tune, "YOU CAN DANCE, YOU CAN JIIIVE, HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIIIIFE!"

"I was wrong—never sing in English again. The accent is killing me slowly," Arthur complains as Francis continues to move him against his will. "I'm going to vomit on you."

"You seemed like you were in the mood for a dance, clearly," Francis says with a smile, releasing his shoulders. "Feeling better?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Well, that's all I've got," Francis chuckles, placing a kiss on his sore nose. Then, he picks up the sports drink from earlier and has Arthur sip on it some more. "I thought that soothing song would put you to sleep at last."

Arthur licks his chapped lips and sneezes.

"Bless you."

"Ugh, thanks."

"Since we're not going to get any rest, how about I put on a movie for us?"

"…Okay."

He selects the first romantic comedy film that Netflix recommends—something about two starving artists who fall in love—puts a fresh cold compress on Arthur's head, slips a thermometer in his mouth again, and wraps him in his arms. "I'll stay home with you tomorrow."

"You don't have to," Arthur mumbles around the thermometer as it beeps.

"I know, but I want to, okay? You're a fall risk. You could hurt yourself going to the bathroom."

"I won't."

"I don't believe you," Francis says, taking the thermometer. "103.6 degrees Farenheit—my, my…You're one sick puppy."

"Don't call me that, frog."

"Dr. Bonnefoy may just have to take _two _days off to tend to you."

"Please, don't, ughh…"

"And you can forget about going to work for the next week, which is good, we'll have plenty of time to bond."

"Oh, God no."

"Oh, yes," Francis grins, kissing his cheek.

They both settle down to watch the movie, and Arthur slumps against Francis in exhaustion, nestled in a blanket and looking absolutely precious, in Francis's opinion.

Arthur rests his head on Francis's collarbone and magically begins to grow drowsy. He makes it about forty minutes into the movie before he falls asleep, and Francis finds himself feeling immensely relieved on his boyfriend's behalf. His patient needs rest.

"I love you…I'll have tea and a scrumptious breakfast waiting for you when you wake up," he promises.

Apparently, Arthur is only half-dozing, because he mumbles, "Love you so much," before he completely drifts off.

Francis smiles and presses one last kiss against his head before turning off the T.V. He should get a few hours of sleep, too. "Get well soon, _mon amour_."

Everything is under control.

Dr. Bonnefoy knows best, after all.

* * *

_It's no surprise to anyone but Francis when he ends up with a stuffy nose and muscle aches a week later…_

_"Serves you right," Arthur says._

"_Will you take care of me, Dr. Kirkland?"_

_"It seems I don't have much of a choice, do I?"_

_"I love you."_

_"We'll see if you still think that in a week when I'm through with you." _


End file.
